


Open the door and the light falls in.

by acidpop25



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Pretentious, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidpop25/pseuds/acidpop25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John suffers blood loss and Sherlock has been misdiagnosed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open the door and the light falls in.

His fingers digging the bullet out and holding it up to the light, the light shining through his fingers, the light falling golden through his fingers. Fingers steady on a microscope, fingers steady on a corpse, fingers steady on a violin, fingers held up to the light. Light caught in ice around blackness, light in his eyes, police lights slicing across his face in flickers. Sirens.

 _John. John, stay with me John._

The floor is falling, the earth spun out of control. The earth falls away, falls away, diamond lights scattering and a voice saying hold on when there is nothing to hold on to. Try to close your fingers around the light and the light slips away, the light slips away to get caught in his skin. The light falling and the in-between place and a name on your lips that you reach for. The light falling, gravity like an anchor on your tongue. The light falling. Blood leaden on your skin.

Sirens.

 _John, wake up. Please wake up._

The light is too bright when he opens his eyes; it washes everything so pale and white it could be Heaven but no man's Heaven is a hospital. There is a smell of antiseptic and human pain like a living thing. Machines beep and buzz their impersonal mutterings, weighing down the air.

"John?"

"Sherlock." His mouth is rough, the words dry and difficult but Sherlock smiles. He smiles the real smile, the one he means, the one for John, the smile that lets the light show through. Just a blink of light, and then quiet. Then dark.

"Stop dying for me."

"I didn't–"

The dismissive wave of a hand like the stroke of a bird's wing, quick and strong in the air. "You can't die. I'm not quite a sociopath after all."

 _I don't understand_ , John thinks. Doesn't say, doesn't need to say. The cold press of Sherlock's expression smooths, softens, still not a harmless thing but not the knife-edge either.

"The morphine," Sherlock murmurs. "Go to sleep, John."

This is the place where everything starts to begin.


End file.
